


Stress Fractures

by MeltingData



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, a little sad, fluffy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltingData/pseuds/MeltingData
Summary: Homura keeps a cold facade, but she was never a perfect actor. Even with all her practice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I've completed and posted, although I've had a fair bit of practice writing other stories. I'm happy with how it turned out, although it was a bit of a struggle to finish. I hope you enjoy!

It’s disconcerting, Madoka thinks, the way that her dark, satin-haired friend’s eyes harden and narrow whenever the two match gazes. It wasn’t by any particular fault of hers, she had been told, but Homura had never deigned to elaborate on the reason why it was so prevalent. This, of course, did nothing to quell Madoka’s fear of wronging the girl in any way, and in accordance, she behaved constantly as if she were making up for some imagined slight. At the moment, she was hovering around her taller friend, a nervous quirk of the brow marring her otherwise smooth skin as she tried to puzzle out a way to break the silence. Unlike Homura, Madoka had never grown used to that sort of quiet, or the long, long hours of waiting and analyzing involved with work as serious as a magical girl’s. The sheer energy of her family had seen to it that she was never very far from someone with a loud voice and a warm, welcoming smile, and the veteran embodied the bitter negative of all of these things.

Madoka began to speak then, settling on the simple stuttered syllables of “H-Homura...” before the girl in question cut her off. Madoka’s mouth snapped shut at once, and she clasped her hands in deferment.

“Are you nervous? Worrying doesn’t suit you.” Homura’s voice remained even, gaze measured. Sizing the other up. She had met Madoka hundreds of times, and although she was never the same girl twice, there were patterns, quirks of behavior that seemed to be consistent across timelines. It’s easy to notice the little things about the one you love. Homura was well aware that her staring was intimidating, but she was perfectly willing to keep it that way, this time. Her vulnerable friend would need to learn to remain in-line one way or another.

Madoka nods, trying to smooth the wrinkle cleaving her forehead. She plays with the hem of her shirt as a distraction, trying to think of the wilting gaze as a good thing. Homura was seated in a raised, wheeled office chair at the helm of one of her many computers, and regardless of her seated position, the difference in their height was notable, Madoka being forced to look up when she wanted to address the other girl. Displayed on the monitor were many spreadsheets and data points, charting the locations and frequency of witch appearances within Mitakihara. This was a common, familiar practice to Homura, something to hold onto between timelines. She kept the recognizable patterns with her at all times, and with a double-click of a program she had created, the current curve was silently matched to a very similar one from a previous time. On the right appeared a list of conditions that would be present for Walpurgis Night’s appearance: wind speed, temperature, humidity. Any possible factor that she could use to her advantage, or calculate to make her assault more effective. Given time and repetition, she was certain the process could be perfected. Her pale face was illuminated by the blue light of the screen, and Madoka’s eyes flitted from the incomprehensible stream of information, and Homura’s long, slightly pinched features. She wondered what ran through the girl’s head, how she could keep up with so many numbers and names without cracking under the pressure. She wondered if she already had, and how those cracks had been filled. A small beep and a flash of red, a flicker, and Homura’s petite nose twitched in frustration. An anomaly in the chart. She leaned forward to begin the new calculations, but was stopped short by Madoka’s golden fingers laying, rather boldly, atop her own. She freezes dead, head turning to look inquisitively at her charge. Madoka flushes.

“F-Forgive me, but um…” Madoka begins to remove her hand, cowed, but the pale delicate counterpart underneath flips, and their digits lock together. Palm to palm, they stare at each other. For once, the veteran’s gaze holds no suspicion, no searching. A rare moment of openness. Madoka is caught off guard, and though her eyes stay glued to their morose violet counterparts, she pays more attention to sensation. How long the stoic magical girl’s fingers are, how flawless she looks despite the ghastly lighting, how even while she worked she was beautiful. How secretly pleased the pink-haired girl was to be able to touch her and look at her like this, see a similar feeling reflected back, if only for a moment. She gives her hand a minute squeeze, runs her thumb across the back of Madoka’s knuckles. For her, this was close intimacy, and she held onto it for as long as she could before pulling herself back together. This wasn’t allowed. Letting her precious friend get too close would lead to more sympathy, pity as she saw the truth of her quest, a desire to help. Like it or not, those feelings ended only one way, with a contract. Homura had seen it enough times, despite her warning and pleading to cherish life as-is. These were the sacrifices she had learned to make in her jumps. For focus, for strength, for the home of the girl she had grown to love. She couldn’t allow herself to embrace that love until it was all over. Homura released her hand and turned away, just as Madoka’s lips began to part.

“Sit. You’re going to get a cramp if you continue to stand.” A matching office chair appeared at Homura’s side, and Madoka took it without question, scooting as close as she dared. This was an unspoken violation of the usual distance that the time-traveler maintained, and she was mindful that she didn’t step too far. She likely wouldn’t get another chance. Homura sighed quietly. Madoka’s cheeks stay a light pink, pleased despite the frigidity, and she kicks her feet lightly as she watches the other girl work. To stay level, she had to raise her seat and therefore her legs, off of the floor, a small fact that Homura did not miss. Glancing down every so often, Homura’s lips pressed a little thinner. It was funny, how the simplest movements were so distracting, so _cute_ , when performed by the younger girl. She began to feel a light heat within the room, and with deliberate avoidance of Madoka’s eyes, she loosens her collar.

It was also funny to Madoka, how the smallest adjustments made her nervous and flushed, when performed by the older girl. She felt the heat as well, and an indescribable tension began to build between them. They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound in the room the clacking of keys and ticking of clocks, and occasionally the breath of one or the other. If Homura wasn’t sweating before, she certainly was now, and her pulse quickened as she stumbled repeatedly on simple calculations. Madoka either failed to notice or pretended to, and they eventually reached a stalemate. Homura sat facing the screen, heart racing as her hands sat at keyboard and mouse, doing nothing at all. Madoka was turned more toward the nervous girl than the screen, and although she wasn’t entirely sure of the reason, she was beginning to lean forward, something that was at once frightening and exciting. Of course it wasn’t the first time Homura had been in this situation, but it was one of the few things that could shatter the cold shell every time, force the teenaged girl out to be an embarrassed fool alongside everyone else. Hoping to avoid this scenario, she stood up abruptly, chair flying out from the force. Madoka straightens right out, spinning the chair right around to hide her burning face.

Homura took advantage of this fact, breathing deeply and throwing her hand back through her hair, tresses flipping. She gives her face a quick wipe-down with a rag stored in her shield, then turns to examine her shelves. How exactly do you go about from stopping the girl you like from liking you back? She had never expected such a cruel action to be necessary. Hurting Madoka would be out of the question, and it would ruin the trust she so painstakingly built, pushing her into the arms of her naïve friends. Mami and Sayaka would easily convince her to make a contract, which was, naturally, unacceptable. She began to think deeply as she searches through a heavy black duffel bag, a ritual of sorts that had always helped to calm and refocus her when timelines had jarring divergences.

Madoka, on the other hand, has never even come near kissing another girl (not this Madoka). Embarrassment, excitement, and shame settle in her heart like hot coals, and she presses her hands into her lap, face burning an unhealthy shade of red. What exactly made her friendship with the beautiful girl different? She had never thought about it before. She didn’t want to hurt Homura, and from the reaction she showed, that could easily have been the case. Was it appropriate to approach her? Was it wrong to refrain? Her lips press tight as she struggles, feet tapping a tense rhythm onto the carpet.

The pink-haired girl stands then, balling her pint-sized fists and stepping close behind her friend, her crush. With a deep breath, she seizes Homura’s shoulders, making the distracted girl flinch.

“Ah, Madoka?” Homura tries, caught off guard.

Madoka does not respond, opting instead to pull the taller girl up from her bent-over, head-in-bag posture, and twirl her around before slamming their lips together in a messy, teeth-knocking impression of a first kiss. Madoka’s eyes squeeze tight, hands gripping harder. Homura freezes in place, barely reciprocating as her fingers grasp at air, unsure of where to place themselves. Her wide eyes stay zeroed in on the rosy face up against her own, thoughts flying by in rapid sequence.

_‘Does she remember me?’_

_‘This isn’t okay.’_

_‘I wish it was.’_

Pale hands grip tanned wrists, wrenching apart Madoka’s grip as Homura pulls back in the same moment, clothing shimmering before instantly being replaced by her magical uniform, black over white over purple over black once more. The gears in her shield whir, loudly, and Madoka’s eyes fly open, a gasp and frown accompanying. She searches the violet pair ahead of her, begins to reach out. A weary regret is displayed, that of a woman many times the age of the black-haired girl.

“I’m sorry, Madoka.”

And she was gone.


End file.
